


Winterfell

by little0bird



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Braime - Freeform, Episode Fix-it: s08e04 The Last of the Starks, Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, Episode: s08e04 The Last of the Starks, F/M, Gap Filler, Plothole Fill, Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, The Long Night, the last of the starks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2020-09-19 07:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20327266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little0bird/pseuds/little0bird
Summary: Filling in some gaps left between the end of the Long Night and when Jaime leaves Winterfell.





	1. Hollow Victory

The wights collapsed, looking so much like wave crashing onto the shore of Tarth, that Brienne nearly laughed. She stumbled back a few steps, bracing her back against the battlements, then slid down, landing abruptly on her arse. She heard retching noises, and turned her head. Podrick was on all fours, heaving the contents of his stomach into the snow. ‘’M sorry, m’lady,’ Pod mumbled.

Brienne peered at him in the gloomy light. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘I think I’ll live another day, m’lady. Ser.’

‘Here.’ Jaime plopped a handful of miraculously clean snow into her hand. ‘Put that on your eye.’ He tilted her chin up and studied her face, wincing in sympathy. ‘Half your face is going to be black and blue by sunrise.’

Brienne pressed the snow to her face, hissing between her teeth. ‘And you?’

Jaime grunted as he became aware of the pain radiating up his left arm. His hand had cramped around the hilt of his sword. He forced himself to loosen his grip, leaned the sword against he wall, then slid down to join Brienne. ‘Like our good squire, I shall live to see another day.’ He tried to stretch his fingers, but they refused to cooperate. Brienne dragged herself to face Jaime and reached for his hand. She turned it over, palm facing up, and began to massage it with her thumbs, from the center to the edges, then as the spasms eased, turned her ministrations to his fingers. ‘Better?’ she murmured. 

‘Yes.’ Jaime exhaled slowly. He gazed out over the yard. ‘This is the part I hate,’ he confessed. ‘Separating the dead and wounded, hoping you don’t find a friend among them.’

‘Could we just sit for a few minutes?’ Brienne asked, returning to her previous position, her shoulder just touching Jaime’s. 

‘Just for a few minutes,’ Jaime agreed, letting his head rest against the wall. His eyes drifted shut.

‘Jaime! Jaime!’ He felt a stinging slap on his face and Jaime’s eyes flew open. The sky had lightened considerably, and Tyrion’s face swam into focus. ‘I thought you were dead,’ Tyrion choked, flinging his arms around Jaime.

‘Must have fallen asleep,’ Jaime said ruefully, returning the fervent embrace. He gently shook Brienne. She bolted upright, blinking blearily. ‘Duty calls, Ser Brienne,’ he grunted. Brienne rolled to her hands and knees, then stood, unfolding herself slowly. She held out a hand to Jaime, who took it without a hint of shame, and hauled him to his feet. 

‘Podrick,’ she said crisply. ‘Let’s go.’ Podrick pushed himself to his feet with a muffled curse. 

Tyrion unslung the wineskin from his shoulder and gave it to his erstwhile squire, who upended it over his mouth. ‘Thank you, m’lord,’ Podrick rasped. 

‘The women of Westeros will be thrilled you survived,’ Tyrion joked.

The corner of Podrick’s mouth turned up. ‘The women will have to wait,’ he replied, nodding toward Brienne’s back. He took another quick gulp of wine and handed the skin back to Tyrion. 

They picked their way through the yard, a morass of churned up mud and blood. Brienne paused, her eyes widening in horror as she took in the sight of a knot of Unsullied killing their brothers that they had deemed beyond help. Jaime nudged her back, and she continued to trudge through the mud. Alys Karstark was dead, her long blonde hair matted with blood. How many Karstarks were left? Her thoughts turned to little Ned Umber, his House wiped out in one fell swoop from the undead. Brienne saw a tiny figure lying facedown, hair held back in a clasp shaped like a bear, and came to such a sudden stop, Jaime and Podrick plowed into her back. Brienne stumbled to the body of Lyanna Mormont, and fell to her knees. 

She turned the girl’s body over, and slid one arm under her knees, cradling Lyanna against her chest. ‘No… no, no, no…’ she moaned. 

Jaime crouched next to her. ‘Did you know her well?’

‘As well as could be expected,’ Brienne managed. She didn’t quite understand why she grieving so much for the girl. It was useless to put her feelings into words. She would have mangled them anyway. How to explain to Jaime that Lyanna represented everything Brienne had wished she could have been as a young girl, and admittedly, still longed to be. ‘I would have liked her to be the next one after me,’ she blurted.

Jaime tucked a few strands of Lyanna’s hair behind her ear. Knighting was more of a southern custom, tied so firmly into the Faith of the Seven, that one who followed the old gods would have been loathe to participate in it. But now wasn’t the time to enlighten Brienne. 

‘M’lady, I mean Ser…’ Podrick helped Brienne to her feet, and they joined the line of people streaming out of the gate to lay the dead outside the castle walls.


	2. Slow Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s like swimming in the sea, Brienne thought muzzily, recalling the sensation of the surf rising and falling, then crashing on the beach, before receding back. She couldn’t have said with any certainty how much time had passed. It could have been hours. It could have been days. The rest of the world could have disappeared, save for the two of them in this bed. The touch of Jaime’s stump smoothing the hair from her face made her eyes fly open. Jaime lay next to her, an expression on his face a language she didn’t yet understand. It was then she realized her legs were still splayed apart. She could feel sweat dampening her face and hair, certain she was flushed and blotchy. The black eye probably did her no favors. 
> 
> And yet…
> 
> And yet Jaime looked at her as if she were something rare and precious. Just as he had when he called her a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.

Jaime rounded a corner, just as Brienne whisked into her chamber and closed the door. He walked forward a few paces, then turned, and started to make his way back to the hall. He stopped, and took one step toward Brienne’s chamber, then another. What would he say? Tell her she had fought well? Commiserate that Tyrion had been an ass? Ask if she’d ever noticed the studs on her sword belt? He hadn’t specified that Lannister lions should alternate with the Tarth sunbursts, but it had filled him with an inexplicable warmth when he saw it and refused to consider ordering another without the lions. That he’d felt the same warmth inside when he’d sailed past the island of Tarth on the way to Dorne. Perhaps he could tell her what he really meant when she’d tried to return Oathkeeper at Riverrun. She would dismiss it, of course, blaming it on the wine. Jaime shook his head and retreated toward the hall. He turned and looked back down the corridor to Brienne’s chamber door, gripped by indecision. 

Someone cleared their throat behind him. Jaime whirled around to find Tyrion standing in the middle of the corridor, holding a jug of wine and two cups. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ Tyrion began, setting the jug and cups on the floor, ‘but you have feelings for her, beyond that of comrades-in-arms. And have for quite some time.’ He knew better than to use the word “love.” Cersei had twisted the definition out of all recognition for Jaime when they were children. It would only call up memories of manipulations and torment that had little to do with what Jaime felt for Brienne. ‘And if I had to guess, I would say even as far back as when you came back to King’s Landing, with said lady in tow.’ Jaime blinked and released a pent-up breath, giving Tyrion a short nod, not trusting himself to speak. ‘I thought as much,’ Tyrion mused. ‘If I may be so bold as to suggest she returns those feelings. It’s quite obvious when you’re together.’ He retrieved the jug and the cups and held them out to Jaime. ‘There will never be a better time than now,’ he suggested.

‘To do what?’

Tyrion shrugged. ‘That, my dear brother, is up to you. And her.’

Jaime held up the jug. ‘And the wine?’

Tyrion grinned slyly. ‘Before. During. After. Your choice.’ He turned and began to walk back to the festivities in the hall, then paused. ‘Jaime?’

‘Hmmm?’

‘If you don’t mind taking a bit of advice from someone with far more experience than you…’

Jaime grimaced. ‘Go on.’

‘Take your time,’ Tyrion said. ‘Make it memorable for the right reasons.’ Jaime gave him a puzzled look. Tyrion exhaled gustily and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘If you want to share her bed,’ he began patiently, ‘and she wants to have you in it, don’t go in there like a rampaging beast.’ Inspiration struck. ‘Treat her like a bride on the wedding night.’ 

Jaime lifted the jug in a small salute. ‘Noted.’ He waited until Tyrion had disappeared down the corridor, then quickly walked to Brienne’s chamber. The heady aroma of the Dornish wine was making him dizzy. Or that’s what he told himself, thinking a man of his years and -- for what it was worth -- experience, shouldn’t be so nervous. ‘Breathe…’ he muttered under his breath, then tucked the cups under his right arm, and banged on her door, his left hand curled into a fist. 

The door flew open. Jaime stared at Brienne, feeling as if he had forgotten every word he had ever learned. ‘You didn’t drink,’ he blurted, then shouldered his way into her chamber.

* * *

Jaime tore his mouth away from Brienne’s. Brienne flinched. Of course she’d displeased him already.  _ Too tall, too ugly, and too clumsy. Too… virginal. _ Humiliation burned in the back of her throat. She resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest to shield her breasts as Jaime stepped back. ‘Wait,’ he panted. ‘Not like that.’ Jaime’s hand skimmed over her cheek, thumb grazing over the scar just over her lip, followed by his mouth. He managed to tug off his boots without falling over, then fumbled a little with the lacing of his trousers. Jaime pushed them down, along with his smallclothes and stood as naked as his nameday. 

Without stopping to think about what she was doing, Brienne’s hand floated up and her fingertips traced over the mottled bruise on his chest, then brushed over a nipple, eyes widening as it hardened in response. Jaime’s breath caught, and Brienne snatched her hand away. Jaime grasped her wrist and guided her hand back to his chest. She bit her lip, then at Jaime’s encouraging nod, circled a fingertip over the stiffened tip of his nipple. Brienne turned her hand, so the back of it glided over the plane of his stomach. 

She walked around him in a slow circle, fingers meandering over his skin. Something behind his ear caught her attention in the flickering light of the candles and the fire. She reached up and lightly rubbed the light brown mark that would have been invisible to most. She moved closer, so her breasts pressed against his back and examined the fat crescent moon shape that echoes the curve of his ear. She felt a smile flicker over her lips, just before she kissed him there. Jaime’s head fell back against her shoulder, face turning toward hers. He captured her mouth with his, in a kiss no less hungry than the first, although rather less frenzied. He lifted his right hand to cup the back of her head. Brienne’s hand closed around his arm, holding the golden hand away from their bodies. ‘How do you take that off?’ she asked, with a significant look at the golden hand. She’d hated it since the day Cersei forced it on him, and she was damned if she let Jaime into her bed wearing it. 

‘It unlaces… here…’ Jaime tugged at the lacings, but Brienne stilled his hand. She didn’t release his arm, but shifted so she stood in front of him again. She picked apart the knot in the leather, her hand surprisingly steady, then pulled the hand off his stump. She refrained from violently throwing it into one of the dark corners, settling for placing it on the mantle. She slid the silk sleeve from the stump and laid it next to the hand. Driven by impulse, she brought the stump to her mouth and began to cover it with feather-light kisses.

Jaime’s eyes went round and his breath hissed through his teeth.

He usually tried to avoid looking at it, if he could. It was ugly. A reminder of what he had lost. A reminder of his failures. He’d always been so careful to keep it well away from Cersei. She was repulsed by the stump. But Brienne’s lips sent tendrils of dragonflame up his arm. ‘Brienne…’ he groaned through gritted teeth. Jaime threaded his fingers through her hair and brought her mouth back to his. His hand dropped to the lacings of her trousers and he pulled at them until the knot loosened. Brienne made to remove her boots, and cursed the cobbler that made them when they proved recalcitrant. She released Jaime long enough yank them off, then hooked her thumbs into the waistband, and like Jaime, shoved them down along with her smallclothes. 

He slipped his hand between her thighs, fingers sliding over sensitized flesh, eliciting a muted yelp from Brienne. She’d pleasured herself before, usually with nothing more than a single furtive fingertip while she bit back her moans, smothering them by clamping her other hand over her mouth. Jaime took a step backward, then another, drawing Brienne after him until the furs covering the bed grazed the backs of his knees. He scrabbled for the edge pulling them back, then wordlessly urged her to lie down and joined her. Brienne’s thighs parted at his touch and Jaime slid a finger inside her. Brienne gasped when his thumb brushed over the nub, sending a jolt up her spine. The finger inside her curled, and Brienne’s hips rose and fell, matching the rhythm of Jaime’s hand. Her body shuddered, and she let out a stuttering moan. 

Jaime waited until the tremors stilled. He bent his head to her breast, lips and tongue closing around a nipple, teasing it until it hardened in his mouth. He slid a second finger inside Brienne, his mouth, fingers, and thumb working in concert to elicit another climax from her.

_ It’s like swimming in the sea _ , Brienne thought muzzily, recalling the sensation of the surf rising and falling, then crashing on the beach, before receding back. She couldn’t have said with any certainty how much time had passed. It could have been hours. It could have been days. The rest of the world could have disappeared, save for the two of them in this bed. The touch of Jaime’s stump smoothing the hair from her face made her eyes fly open. Jaime lay next to her, an expression on his face a language she didn’t yet understand. It was then she realized her legs were still splayed apart. She could feel sweat dampening her face and hair, certain she was flushed and blotchy. The black eye probably did her no favors. 

And yet…

And yet Jaime looked at her as if she were something rare and precious. Just as he had when he called her a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. Brienne let her mouth curve into what she now thought of as the smile that was only for Jaime. And only ever would be. ‘Can I…?’ She gulped. ‘Touch… you…?’

Jaime rolled to his back and stretched out. Brienne managed to shakily prop herself on an elbow, eyes flickering toward Jaime’s cock. Her fingers combed through the hair on his chest, following it as it tapered off just as it swirled around his navel, then continued until flared between his legs. She let her fingers skim over it until she could cup his balls in her hand. 

Jaime’s breath hitched in his chest.  _ She’s gentler than Cersei, _ he thought. The sensation of Brienne’s hand enclosing his cock banished all thoughts of Cersei from his head.  _ She’s warm… _ Her fingertips explored every inch of his cock, leading Jaime to silently recite half-forgotten passages from  _ The Seven-Pointed Star _ lest he spill in her hand. It wasn’t an unpleasant prospect, but tonight, he wanted more. He gently pried her hand away from his cock, then repositioned himself, settling between her thighs. He awkwardly propped himself on his right elbow, then positioned his cock at her entrance. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

* * *

Jaime stared at the ceiling, seeing the map of Westeros painted on the floor of the Red Keep and not the soot-stained beams overhead. Now that the living had triumphed over the Night King and his army of the dead, he was acutely aware that his position had become somewhat more tenuous. Unless Daenerys Targaryen forced him to march south at swordpoint, he had no interest in fighting her war. He wondered if she experienced the same arousal as her father when she burned people who displeased her. He had no doubt she would turn one of her dragons on him in a heartbeat because he’d killed the father she never knew. 

The sound of raucous laughter and shouting had faded, and Jaime spared a thought for Jon Snow. How long could he stand as a bulwark against Daenerys and her worst impulses? Jaime considered appealing to Jon Snow’s sense of honor and determination to not judge sons by their fathers. It could work, even though he and Sansa Stark would have little use for him now. He was, after all, a one-handed, ageing, oathbreaking, knight with shit for honor. 

Brienne stirred and turned, her hand flying out and landing on Jaime’s chest. He started in surprise, which woke Brienne. She sat up, the furs sliding from her body. ‘You stayed,’ she murmured with some surprise. She hadn’t expected him to.

‘Do you want me to leave?’ 

‘N-n-no.’ Brienne fell back into her pillow and yanked the furs over her breasts.

Jaime brushed a tendril of hair from her eyes with his stump. ‘Did I hurt you?’ 

Brienne hesitated, but shook her head. It  _ had _ hurt, but only a little. Her childhood septa had expounded on the subject of Brienne’s wedding night numerous times between her second and third failed betrothals, insisting the first time she lay with her husband would be quite painful. In truth, it hurt far less than getting clouted across the face with a closed fist by Sandor Clegane. She curled onto her side, and tentatively touched his hand. He was here, but she had a feeling his mind was miles away. 

‘I don’t know what to do next,’ Jaime said in response to her unspoken question. He shifted onto his side, facing Brienne. ‘I can’t fight against  _ her, _ ’ he told her in a tight voice. ‘But I can no longer fight for her, either.’ He frowned, looking lost and confused. ‘I don’t even know where to go when the armies leave Winterfell.’

‘You could go home,’ Brienne said carefully. ‘To Casterly Rock.’

Jaime shook his head. ‘It’s not my home.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Not anymore.’ He gave her a melancholic smile. ‘Do you know I lived in the White Sword Tower longer than I ever did at the Rock? The idea of the Tower getting destroyed in a battle…’ He couldn’t continue. It filled him with a sadness that he hadn’t felt when he let Daenerys take the Rock. The Kingsguard had given him a sense of purpose and direction he’d never felt when faced with becoming the Lord of Casterly Rock. ‘If Daenerys Targaryen wins, she’ll give it to Tyrion, who wants it. If Cersei wins, she’ll have Tyrion executed for treason,’ he said in a low voice. ‘And me, for that matter.’

‘You could stay here in Winterfell,’ Brienne ventured. ‘Lady Stark… You could invoke guest right…’

‘The same way her mother and brother claimed guest right from Walder Frey?’ Jaime scoffed.

‘She wouldn’t do that,’ Brienne insisted. ‘I won’t…’

‘You swore an oath to her,’ Jaime countered.

‘To protect her, not indulge in vengeance,’ Brienne said. ‘She swore an oath as well. Not to ask anything of me that might bring dishonor. Asking me to stand by while she violates guest right is dishonorable.’

‘And when Cersei sends an army to either kill me or take me prisoner?’

‘They’ll have to go through me first.’ Brienne’s determined gaze held his. ‘Because nothing’s more hateful than failing to protect the one you…’ She trailed off, turning her face into the pillow to hide the blush that colored her face. She emerged once the heat had faded from her cheeks. ‘We can speak to Lady Stark in the morning.’

Jaime felt a suspicious prickling sensation in his eyes that accompanied a surge of emotion that he only ever experienced with Brienne. He maneuvered their bodies until she straddled him. He managed to sit up, his mouth brushing over the line of her jaw, hand cupping her face. ‘Why do you fight for me? Defend me when no one else will?’ 

Brienne lowered her mouth to his and kissed him, unshed tears gathering on her lashes. ‘You deserve for someone to defend you.’ She wound her arms around his shoulders and legs around his hips.

‘I’m not an innocent.’

Brienne laced her fingers through his. ‘I never said you were.’ She brought his stump to rest on her hip. ‘But you’re not what everyone says you are.’ Her forehead rested against his, and she rubbed her nose against his. ‘I will defend you against the Dragon Queen, your sister, even Lady Stark if I must.’

Jaime slid his arm around her waist. He had no doubt that she would personally attempt to take down the entire Lannister army. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’

* * *

Sansa studied him with the same haughty blue gaze as her mother. ‘You don’t deserve her,’ she pronounced. 

Jaime’s mouth twisted wryly. It was nothing he hadn’t said to himself numerous times since the first time Brienne had called him Ser Jaime. ‘No. I don’t.’

‘And you want to stay here and not return to King’s Landing?’

‘If you’ll allow it.’ Jaime licked his dry lips. ‘As a guest,’ he added pointedly, hoping Brienne was right and Jon and Sansa would honor guest right. ‘Your castle needs repairs, and your house guards are woefully inadequate,’ he said. ‘I may be a one-handed, disgraced knight, but I can help Ser Brienne with the guards. I don’t mean to be idle.’

‘You’re a Lannister.’ It spilled from Sansa’s lips as though the words were something foul.

‘I had nothing to do with the death of your father. I was a prisoner of your brother Robb at the time. Nor had I anything to do with the deaths of your brother or mother. Or the Stark men. My father…’ Jaime swallowed against the rising tide of nausea at the memory of the Red Wedding. ‘I cannot change the fact that Tywin Lannister’s blood runs through my veins, but as far as those particular wrongs to your family, I am blameless, as much as you would like to believe otherwise.’ He motioned to the door. ‘You can ask Ser Brienne, if you wish. You know she is completely incapable of lying to you.’

‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’ Sansa sat back, hands folded on the table. She gave him another long, appraising look, then said, with the tone of one commenting on the weather, ‘If you hurt her, I will personally shove you from the top of the Wall.’

‘I would expect nothing less, my lady.’ Jaime bowed politely and turned to leave. 

‘Tell Brienne I’d like to see her.’

Jaime gave Sansa a nod, then left the chamber. He blew out a breath, suddenly aware of the nervous sweat trickling down his spine. ‘Your turn,’ he muttered.

Brienne slipped into Sansa’s chamber, hands folded tightly together. She gingerly lowered herself into the chair opposite Sansa. ‘You disapprove.’

‘Only because you could do better,’ Sansa countered. ‘A Lannister, Brienne?’ Her lip curled in derision. ‘Tormund admires you,’ she said.

‘He is… a most fearsome warrior,’ Brienne managed.

‘He does more than admire you.’

‘I’m sure that he does.’ Brienne pulled her cloak over her hands. ‘I’m sure he will make someone a fine husband. But not me.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘May I speak frankly, my lady?’ At Sansa’s nod, Brienne continued. ‘Ser Jaime’s not his father. Nor his sister. I meant what I said before the battle. If not for him, neither you nor I would be here.’ She leaned forward slightly. ‘He saved Podrick…’ Sansa raised a questioning brow. ‘When Lord Tyrion was arrested for Joffery’s murder. Someone offered Pod a knighthood, money… all to testify against Lord Tyrion. He refused. Whoever it was, they would have killed him if Jaime hadn’t sent me off with me to be my squire.’

‘He served Cersei without question for years _ ’ _

‘My lady, we’ve all done things we’re not proud of,’ Brienne argued, unable to hide the grimace that crossed her face. She wasn’t entirely certain she could classify an incestuous, adulterous affair with one’s own twin that resulted in three children as something to merely not be proud of, nor acquiescing to the wishes of a cold-blooded, brutal tyrant, but in truth, it was all on Jaime’s conscience. 

‘So a few good deeds outweigh a lifetime of depravity?’

Brienne did flinch a little at that. Of course she would have heard the rumors when she lived in King’s Landing. Even Brienne herself had heard them. ‘No, my lady,’ she murmured. ‘But it’s a start.’

‘You care for him a great deal,’ Sansa stated. Brienne merely gazed back at her in reply. Sansa shook her head. ‘I fail to see what you see in him, but I do trust you.’ She rubbed her hands over her face. ‘There will be a council meeting after breakfast. I’ll ensure that everyone knows he will remain here -- as a guest of Winterfell.’ She glowered at Brienne. ‘I hope Daenerys Targaryen has the sense to not violate guest right. Regardless of who it is, it won’t win her any friends if she does.’

‘You don’t like her.’

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘You don’t trust her, either,’ Brienne added in an undertone. 

‘Neither do you.’ 


	3. The Bear and the Maiden Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She pressed the ball of her thumb onto the edge of the table, searching for the next line she could recall. The singers that had come to Evenfall when she was a girl never sang it. The first time she’d ever heard the song was when Locke and his men repeatedly bellowed it as they rode to Harrenhal. ‘“She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair, but he licked the honey from her hair…”’ Brienne trailed off, feeling the hated flush creep into her cheeks. ‘It was never about honey, was it?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know everyone has one of these, but the more the merrier, right?

Brienne sleepily collected a bowl of porridge from the kitchen maid who doled it out from a large kettle suspended over a brazier near the door that led to the kitchens to keep it warm. She slid onto a bench, closer to the roaring fire, and reached for the jug of warm milk on the table. She poured a splash of milk over the barley, then picked up a plate laden with pieces of honeycomb.

_ Ser Goodwin…? Twelve year old Brienne shuffled into the armory. ‘What’s a honeypot?’ _

_ The grizzled master-at-arms put down the sword in his hand. ‘What?’ _

_ She scuffed the toes of her shoes in the dirt. ‘I heard a couple of the older squires say that my betrothed should hope my honeypot is sweeter than my face…’ _

‘Brienne?’

She blinked coming back to herself. Jaime sat across from her with his own breakfast.

‘Don’t suppose you’d mind sharing the honey, would you?’’

Brienne’s eyes dropped to the plate of honeycomb she clutched in her hand. She felt a hot flush creep up the back of her neck, and thrust the plate at him, then mumbled incoherently and fled to Winterfell’s armory, flooded with memories of the previous night. 

_ Jaime let her smalls flutter to the floor, then gently pushed her backward until the backs of her thighs collided with the table. Another nudge encouraged her to slide onto it. Brienne’s fears that it would collapse under her dissipated when it didn’t so much as creak. Some distant corner of her mind took a moment to appreciate the craftsmanship before the sensation of Jaime trailing his fingers over her breasts drove intelligible thoughts from her head. ‘Open your legs for me,’ he murmured, lips grazing against the line of her jaw, down the side of her neck, skating over the ridge of her collarbone before his tongue flicked at the rapid tattoo of her pulse at the base of her throat.  _

_ She did as he asked, fully expecting to feel his hand stroke her into a frenzy before he entered her. Instead, his tongue mapped lazy, meandering paths up the inside of one thigh. He nuzzled the tangled thatch of blonde hair between her legs with a muffled, ‘Mother save me…’ before moving his mouth to her other thigh. _

_ He did touch her then. Fingertips fluttering as light as a butterfly’s wings. Jaime’s warm breath ghosted over her belly, head tilted back, watching her. Brienne shivered, but the room was warm. ‘Jaime, please…’ she whispered.  _

_ ‘As my lady commands,’ he breathed, then oh-so-softly let his tongue tease her just so. She blindly reached out, clutching at the first thing her questing hand encountered, and wrapped her fingers around his stump _

_ Brienne opened her eyes. Jaime’s face was buried between her thighs, making soft growling noises in the back of his throat. She shuddered, back arching, unable to prevent the gurgling moan from escaping her lips. Jaime stood and wrapped her legs around his hips. He slid into her, his fingertips still stroking her. Brienne’s mouth settled over his, and she kissed the taste of her from his tongue.  _

_ It wasn’t sweet like honey.  _

_ It was earthier.  _

_ Primal.  _

_ She convulsed, her arms and legs tightening around him. His name on her lips a benediction. Jaime found his release, his breath harsh in her ear, but his mouth soft on her skin.  _

A cloth-wrapped bundle dropped on the table, scattering headless arrow shafts. ‘Thought you might be hungry.’ Brienne glanced up. Jaime stood in front of her, a quizzical expression in his eyes. ‘Pod finished your porridge. Just so you know it didn’t go to waste.’

‘That song… The one with the bear… The one from Harrenhal…’

‘“The Bear and the Maiden Fair.”’ Jaime supplied.

‘Yes, that one.’ Brienne dredged up half-remembered lyrics. ‘"I called for a knight, but you’re a bear,”’ she quoted. She pressed the ball of her thumb onto the edge of the table, searching for the next line she could recall. The singers that had come to Evenfall when she was a girl never sang it. The first time she’d ever heard the song was when Locke and his men repeatedly bellowed it as they rode to Harrenhal. ‘“She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair, but he licked the honey from her hair…”’ Brienne trailed off, feeling the hated flush creep into her cheeks. ‘It was never about honey, was it?’

‘No.’ Jaime’s mouth twitched, and he thought he might crack a rib trying not to laugh. ‘It was not.’ He busied himself with picking apart the knot in the cloth, and then spread the edges out. He nudged the bread and cheese that he’d been able to beg from the kitchen to Brienne. ‘Keep your strength up. This bear quite likes the honey.’ He gave her a roguish wink as he turned to leave, his insouciant swagger making the hem of his cloak swing. He began to sing to himself as he strolled toward the door. ‘Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air! The bear! She sang. My bear so fair…’

The balled-up cloth smacked him squarely in the back of the head. 


	4. Take What He's Owed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Cersei sent Bronn to kill the two of you?’ Sansa gestured to Jaime and Tyrion. They both nodded. ‘And you,’ she added, turning to Jaime, ‘think he might try to kill Brienne and me?’
> 
> ‘Yes.’ Jaime was emphatic. 
> 
> ‘I can understand why she’d want to kill you,’ Sansa stated. ‘And she’s wanted me dead since Joffery died.’ She studied Jaime with the same intensity he’d seen on her mother’s face. ‘Does she still believe Tyrion and I were involved?’ 
> 
> Jaime returned her unblinking gaze. ‘Yes.’
> 
> Sansa let out a rather unladylike guffaw. ‘And they call you the stupidest Lannister.’

Jaime darted for the door as soon as Bronn left the inn. He opened it just enough to peer into the yard. There were only two horses in the yard -- his and Tyrion’s. ‘Seven hells,’ he muttered, groping for the pouch tucked into his belt. He tossed a few coins on the table for the innkeeper. ‘We need to go.’ Urgency turned his voice into a low growl.

Tyrion still sat in his chair, frozen into place. ‘Do you know,’ he began in a tone that was better suited to discussing the weather, ‘that I once asked Bronn if he would kill a baby on someone’s orders without question?’ Tyrion wiped his bloody fingers absentmindedly down the front of his jerkin. ‘And he said no. He would ask how much they would pay…’

Jaime’s head whipped around. ‘Brienne…’ He reached back and all but hauled Tyrion from his chair and dragged him outside, nearly throwing him into the saddle. Jaime vaulted onto his horse, and urged him into a gallop. He spared a glance for Tyrion, never more than an adequate horseman, and felt a twinge of guilt. Tyrion had managed to tuck himself into a ball, and cling to the saddle, but it would be a miserable, albeit short, ride for him. Tyrion’s horse was a steady, good-tempered mare, but she’d picked up the scent of fear that emanated from Jaime, and hurtled down the road in Jaime’s wake. 

They streaked through the gates of Winterfell, and Jaime slid off his horse, feeling rather as he had when he’d found Brienne in the bear pit. He raced through the doors of the hall, skidding to a stop outside Sansa’s chamber and began to pound on the door. 

Sansa yanked it open, irritation clearly written on her face. ‘Where is Brienne?’ Jaime barked before she could so much as chastise him.

‘I don’t know.’ Sansa craned her head to peer around Jaime. Tyrion trundled into her line of vision. She peered at him, then grabbed a candle from the table next to the door and held it close to Tyrion. ‘Is that… blood?’

‘Yes.’ Tyrion prodded his nose, wincing. 

Jaime shoved Tyrion into Sansa’s chamber. ‘Brinne?’ he repeated.

‘She said something about wanting to write to her father.’ Sansa glanced between Tyrion and Jaime, noting the tense set of their faces. ‘What’s going on?’

Jaime gestured to Tyrion. ‘He’ll explain. Don’t leave this room.’ He spun with a swirl of his cloak and darted into the hall. ‘Pod!’ Jaime charged across the hall. Brienne’s squire was sharing a cup of wine with a comely young maid. ‘Where’s Lady Brienne?’

Pod’s brows drew together. ‘I don’t know, m’lord. Haven’t seen her since supper.’

Jaime pushed past Podrick and ran as quickly as he could to Winterfell’s library. It was empty and dark. He slammed his fist on a table, retraced his steps back to the hall, and turned down the corridor that led to Brienne’s chamber. He threw himself at the door, staggering over the threshold as it opened. Brienne sat at the table, quill suspended over a sheet of parchment, gaping at the sight of Jaime, his chest heaving from a mixture of relief and exertion. ‘Have you seen Bronn?’ he demanded.

‘Who?’

‘You remember Bronn. Tyion’s friend in King’s Landing He escorted you and Pod to the Dragonpit,’ Jaime said, his voice positively dripping with impatience. 

‘Not since the Dragonpit,’ Brienne replied. She laid the quill down and slowly rose to her feet. ‘Why?’

‘Cersei sent him to kill Tyrion and me.’ Brienne’s eyes narrowed. Jaime snatched her cloak from the hook on the wall. ‘I’ll explain everything in Sansa’s chamber.’

* * *

‘Cersei sent Bronn to kill the two of you?’ Sansa gestured to Jaime and Tyrion. They both nodded. ‘And you,’ she added, turning to Jaime, ‘think he might try to kill Brienne and me?’

‘Yes.’ Jaime was emphatic. 

‘I can understand why she’d want to kill you,’ Sansa stated. ‘And she’s wanted me dead since Joffery died.’ She studied Jaime with the same intensity he’d seen on her mother’s face. ‘Does she still believe Tyrion and I were involved?’ 

Jaime returned her unblinking gaze. ‘Yes.’

Sansa let out a rather unladylike guffaw. ‘And they call you the stupidest Lannister.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ Jaime glanced at Brienne from the corner of his eye. ‘As for Lady Brienne…’ He met her gaze, and she frowned unhappily. 

Brienne studied her hands. ‘She knows Ser Jaime and I are... ‘ She bit her lip. ‘Friends,’ she managed. Jaime’s hand lifted and settled gently on hers, thumb sweeping the inside of her wrist. ‘More than friends,’ she amended. 

‘If he can’t manage to kill Jaime and me, then he’ll take both of your heads back to King’s Landing to claim his payment.’ Tyrion shrugged. ‘Next best thing. He won’t return to King’s Landing empty-handed.’ Tyrion shivered. ‘And if he manages to return with all four of our heads…’

‘You already offered him Highgarden,’ Jaime said testily. ‘I’m not sure what she could offer that would be a richer prize.’

‘There’s always Casterly Rock,’ Tyrion intoned. ‘For the irony.’

‘Other than the fact it’s worthless,’ Jaime reminded him. ‘And she won’t give up the Rock as easily as I did.’

‘Or a place in her bed as well as Highgarden,’ Sansa interjected dryly. She had never forgotten Cersei drunkenly informing her a woman’s greatest asset lay between her legs. Jaime snorted. He wouldn’t put anything past Cersei any more. 

‘It’s all very well and good to speculate what reward she might bestow upon him,’ Brienne said. She got up and walked to the fireplace and began jabbing at the logs. She refused to even say Cersei’s name aloud. ‘But what are _ we _going to do?’ 

Sansa crossed her arms over her chest and looked at Tyrion with an almost malicious glee. ‘I suppose as her Hand, you’ll have to inform your queen, lest Bronn attack you on the road to White Harbor. I’m sure she can spare a few Unsullied to guard you.

‘You used to be much more considerate of other people’s feelings,’ Tyrion groused.

‘I used to be a lot of things,’ Sansa replied, still clearly amused. 

‘You’ll need guards, my lady,’ Brienne said, moving the conversation back into practical matters. ‘At least two with you at all time. They can guard the door while you sleep.’

‘Not just any guards,’ Jaime added. ‘Handpicked by Brienne. Trained by her.’

‘We’ll begin first thing in the morning.’ Brienne already had a list of possible candidates forming in her head. She headed for the door, thoughts of writing to her father pushed aside. ‘If that will be all…’

‘Sit down.’ Jaime’s voice was quiet, but rang as if he’d shouted. ‘There’s still the small matter of your life to consider.’ He rubbed his ear, still feeling the rush of the quarrel before it embedded itself in the post behind him.

‘I know how to fight.’ Brienne visibly bristled at the suggestion that she couldn’t manage for herself.

‘Why don’t the two of you continue this discussion in your chamber?’ Sansa suggested, sensing an incipient argument. ‘You don’t need Tyrion or me for this.’

Brienne flushed, but bowed shortly. ‘Lady Stark,’ she murmured tightly, then spun on a heel and stalked from the room.

Jaime stood up slowly. ‘One hour each day,’ he began. ‘She and I will train together.’ 

‘You do realize you’ve insulted her?’ Sansa said archly.

Jaime exhaled forcefully. ‘Lady Brienne is a very good fighter,’ he allowed. ‘And a very honorable one. She needs to learn to be… less than honorable in a fight.’

Sansa’s stood and ran her hands down the front of her skirt. ‘Understood.’ She gave Tyrion a sidelong glance, and beckoned to him. ‘Come on. You should wash your face before you tell your queen her Hand’s sister is trying to have him killed.’

‘She’s your queen, too,’ Tyrion sighed, but he slid from his chair and followed Sansa all the same.

‘I have no queen.’ Sansa’s voice was icy enough to make the room feel colder. 

‘Good night, Lady Stark,’ Jaime muttered with a short nod of his head, and beat a hasty retreat. Brienne paced around their chamber, cheeks pink, huffing like a cantankerous cat. Jaime closed the door and bolted it. He said nothing, but dropped into the chair Brienne had occupied earlier, and waited for her to speak.

‘I can take care of myself!’ she yelled.

‘I know you can.’

‘I don’t need to be watched or have minders.’

‘No. You don’t.’ Jaime pulled off his boots.

‘Then why?’

Jaime leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘You must learn to fight dishonorably. Because Bronn does not fight with honor.’ He untied the laces of the gold hand and pulled it off. ‘He trained with me after…’ He waved his stump in the air. ‘He has no qualms attacking a man from behind.’ He regarded the gold hand with a wry expression before he dropped it to the table. ‘Or using any tool at his disposal.’ Brienne stood in front of him, and Jaime rested his hand and stump on either side of her hips. He tipped his head back so he could see her face. She frowned, but there was a determined light in her eyes. ‘And if he remains in the North, he will use you to ensure that he is given what Tyrion has promised in exchange for our lives. He wants his payment, and he’ll do whatever it takes to get it. Regardless of whose ass sits on the Iron Throne, or which Lannister is still alive to give it to him.’ Jamie’s arms wound around Brienne’s waist. He was suddenly extraordinarily weary. ‘We’ll go to the woods. Learn together.’ He drew her closer, and rested his forehead against her middle. ‘I promised you once I wouldn’t let anyone else hurt you. If he wants to try and take you, he’ll have to come through me.’ He felt Brienne’s fingers comb through his hair. ‘I promise.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read somewhere (can't remember where... sorry...) that originally, Cersei was going to have Bronn go for Brienne and Sansa. So even through Bronn hasn't explicitly stated he'll take Sansa and Brienne in place of Jaime and Tyrion, Jaime's not to naive as to think he and Tyrion are the only targets. Let's be honest. Cersei would be thrilled to have Brienne's head on a spike, and Sansa's would be the cherry on top of her sundae. Bronn's a lot of things, but he's not stupid. And you know Cersei's been raging around the castle because Jaime left her for that great shambling beast.


	5. Under the Sentinel Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne’s breath caught in her throat, and she hummed as his tongue began to trace delicate pathways across her wrist. The empty ache of desire furled between her thighs. She shivered, but it wasn’t due to the cold.
> 
> Wanton. 
> 
> Septa Roelle had used the word often to describe some of the housemaids at Evenfall. The ones who flirted with the sworn swords. Who were caught stealing kisses in the shadows. She’d said they were little better than the whores at the docks. Always in a disapproving tone, with a haughty sniff. 
> 
> Except…
> 
> It didn’t feel that way. She poured everything she could never put into words into every caress and kiss. It was probably nearly as awkward as her words would be, but there could be no mistaking her intent.

The clacking sound of the wooden blades smacking against one another echoed through the clearing. _ You must be willing to fight dishonorably, _ Jaime had said. _ Because Bronn does not fight with honor. _ And so they stole away from the castle, using one of the precious hours of daylight to spar, unlearning decades of habit. Brienne’s hand darted forward, and she grabbed Jaime’s golden one, then gave it a hard twist and a vicious yank. It came off, and she flung it aside. ‘At least you didn’t use it to slap me,’ Jaime grunted, blocking the slashing movement of Brienne’s sword. 

‘Not this time,’ Brienne panted, a small grin on her lips. She lunged, remembering his long-ago admonishment not to grunt when she did so. She caught him by surprise, the flat of her sword hitting his forearm with a _ thwack _and managed to disarm him. Brienne pushed Jaime against the wide trunk of a sentinel, his left wrist pinned next to his head. ‘Yield.’ The blunt point of the wooden sword hovered just under his jaw. Jaime’s eyes flicked to the side, and he grinned. The cuff of her sleeve had fallen back, exposing the tender skin of the inside of her wrist. He tilted his head to the side, and just barely grazed his lips over the pulse that beat there.

Brienne’s breath caught in her throat, and she hummed as his tongue began to trace delicate pathways across her wrist. The empty ache of desire furled between her thighs. She shivered, but it wasn’t due to the cold.

_ Wanton. _

Septa Roelle had used the word often to describe some of the housemaids at Evenfall. The ones who flirted with the sworn swords. Who were caught stealing kisses in the shadows. She’d said they were little better than the whores at the docks. Always in a disapproving tone, with a haughty sniff. 

Except…

It didn’t feel that way. She poured everything she could never put into words into every caress and kiss. It was probably nearly as awkward as her words would be, but there could be no mistaking her intent.

Brienne couldn’t help the soft mew of protest when Jaime moved his mouth away from her wrist. His teeth glimmered in the darkness of his beard as he smiled at her, amusement dancing in his eyes. The wooden sword in Brienne’s hand dropped with a muffled _ thump _ to the forest floor, covered with the needles from the soldier pines and sentinels. Her free hand fisted in the front of his tunic, and Brienne’s mouth descended on his. Jaime twisted his wrist from her grasp and guided her hand to the laces of his trousers, pressing her palm against his hardening cock. His eyes had darkened to rival the color of the sentinel needles over their heads. Brienne was still startled, but delighted all the same, to find that he wanted _ her. _ She, who was simultaneously too much and not enough. Brienne stepped back, not releasing Jaime, and toed off her boots. She began to loosen the knot in the laces of her trousers, batting Jaime’s hand away when he tried to help. She pushed her trousers down, along with her smalls, gasping a little as the cold air hit her heated skin, and wordlessly urged Jaime to the ground. 

She straddled his hips and unlaced his trousers. It only took a few moments to free his cock. She fumbled a little, but managed to shift her hips and slide down the length of it until he was completely inside her. Her movements were awkward and tentative at first, trying to find a rhythm. Then she felt Jaime’s hand at the small of her back, subtly guiding her. _ Like dancing… _ Brienne let Jaime direct her movements until she found a rhythm and pace that made her sigh his name. She adjusted the cant of her hips, and her fingers and toes began to tingle. _ Yeeesssss, _ she thought. It felt nearly as good as when he used his tongue there. She was only dimly aware of Jaime’s soft groans over the pounding of her heartbeat. _ Does it always feel this good? _Her body convulsed, and a keening moan drifted to the grey skies. 

‘No, but it’s indescribable when it does.’ Jaime sounded breathless. Brienne looked down, biting her lip with chagrin. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. ‘Don’t stop now,’ Jaime growled, when she stopped moving. His eyes squeezed shut. ‘So close…’ he murmured. His hand skimmed under the hem of her tunic and slid between their bodies, thumb lightly brushing against the nub there. Brienne’s began to move again, deliberately maintaining a languorous pace, so as not to dislodge that maddeningly unrelenting thumb. She shuddered again, crushing his mouth under hers, teeth closing around his lower lip. ‘_Gods,’ _ she hissed, whimpering when Jaime removed his hand. 

He shifted until he could sit up, the crown of his head, just bumping her chin. Jaime slid his stump under one knee, and wrapped her leg around his hip, then repeated the action with his hand and her other leg. His right arm wound tightly around her waist, and his hand tangled in her hair. He thrust into her once, with a rasping gasp, then again, and then stilled, shamelessly crying out as he spilled into her, his breath harsh in the quiet woods.

How long they sat there, Brienne didn’t know. Long enough for her to become aware of the chill wisps of air that crept under the hem of her cloak to leave a trail of gooseflesh over her bare arse. Long enough for the dim light in the clearing to fade into night. Long enough for her to recall her decidedly uncharacteristically wanton behavior. 

Her face reddened as she slowly got to her feet and found her discarded clothing. She handed Jaime her smalls, with a slight grimace. Sex, she had discovered, was a messy business, and it was the only thing at hand they had. She turned away as he swiped them over his belly, then tucked himself back into his clothes. Brienne wriggled back into her trousers, savagely knotting the laces as a silent rebuke to herself, and then pulled her boots on. What had she been thinking to maul him in that manner? While it was true that she was an eager participant the previous times they had made love, Jaime had always initiated it. This had been the first time she had been the one to turn a teasing kiss into a mad scramble to remove their clothing. Jaime stood next to her, his hand holding up his trousers. ‘Could you…?’ he asked quietly, indicating the laces with his stump. Brienne quickly tied his laces, avoiding his eyes, her face still burning. For good measure, she turned him around a little, and brushed off the soldier pine needles that clung to his cloak, and plucked out the few that had caught in his hair. 

Jaime silently gathered the wooden swords, returning them to the sack they’d carried them in, while she searched for his hand. Brienne found it at the edge of the clearing and handed it to him. Jaime took it, and began the process of reattaching it to his stump. ‘Are you ashamed of what we did?’ he asked, concentrating on the lacings. 

‘Of course not,’ she muttered, pulling the edges of her cloak together. Her shoulders hunched, belying her words. That he’d used “we” didn’t escape her. It was different for him, though. He was a man. It was acceptable -- almost expected -- for him to give into his urges like that. As a woman… She’s had two options: be as chaste as the Maiden or as depraved as the dockside whores. There was no middle ground. She dug the toe of her boot into the layer of needles under their feet. 

Jaime put one finger under her chin, lifting her face. ‘You shouldn’t be.’ 

Brienne had to stop herself from squirming. All the lessons drilled into her by the septa were hard to forget, much less leave behind. ‘Wanton,’ she managed, groping for words that wouldn’t make her look foolish. ‘My behavior. My septa said…’ She trailed off, embarrassed to even bring up Septa Roelle’s sanctimonious bleatings. Here she was, a grown woman past thirty, still allowing herself to be confined by the self-righteous blatherings of a woman who did everything in her power to make Brienne feel there was something inherently wrong with her.

Jaime closed the space between them. ‘You are allowed to want me. And to act upon it. You do not have to be what you were taught.’ His lips brushed over her jaw, then slanted across her mouth. ‘And to the seven hells with anyone who thinks less of you for it,’ he murmured against her lips. His fingers traced the curves of her face. ‘There are no other women like you,’ he told her in an echo of something he’d said about himself once. ‘There’s only you.’ She blushed again, head ducking to hide it. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he added, in what Brienne surmised was an attempt to reassure her. ‘When this is over--’

‘Don’t.’ Brienne laid her fingertips over his lips. She didn’t want promises or oaths about a distant future she couldn’t imagine. Not when vengeful dragon queens, wrathful sisters, or amoral sellswords could render them moot. ‘Not today.’ She stooped and retrieved the sack with the wooden swords. ‘Not yet,’ she amended.

‘But someday?’ 

Someday wasn’t a promise. It was hope. Brienne could live with hope. She slung the sack over one shoulder and took Jaime’s hand in hers. ‘Someday,’ she agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a medieval German poem called "Under the Linden-tree" that I had heard about (I knew the title), but didn't really know the poem. I'd planned to create a variation of the title for this chapter.
> 
> Then I read the poem last night. 
> 
> "Under the linden tree  
Upon the heath,  
There I lay with him. -- Alas,  
When you go there, you'll see  
The flowers beneath  
Crushed and trodden with the grass.  
By the forest in the dale...
> 
> How he caressed me there,  
If anyone  
Should know: alas, how I should blush!  
And all our pastime fair!" 
> 
> \-- Under the Linden-tree by Walter von der Vogelweide (1170-1228), translated, 1916
> 
> That's just an excerpt, but I was intrigued by the parallels. I don't know why I'm telling you any of this. It just seemed really interesting to me.
> 
> Anyway... Hope you enjoyed it. :)


	6. Never Speak of This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew Brienne was a woman, but often didn’t think of her in that way, even though he called her “m’lady,” despite her protests. She almost always wore her armor, and when she wasn’t, her clothes were loose enough to conceal that she had a woman’s shape. She had never appeared less than fully clothed in front of him. 
> 
> But there she was, without a stitch on, as naked as her name day. Ser Brienne of Tarth was most definitely a woman.

Pod didn’t see Brienne at breakfast, which wasn’t unusual. She often rose well before he did, eating in the chilly greyness of dawn, and then trained alone with her sword and the pells before donning her armor for the day with his assistance. She would train with him for another hour before their day began in earnest. It was a routine into which they had fallen once they’d arrived at Winterfell. It was a routine that had been disrupted when the preparations to fight the dead took precedence over everything.

As much as Pod had enjoyed the excitement of having the armies in Winterfell, he could do with a little less of it. He wanted to train with Brienne again, without Tormund leering at her. Brienne had expressly forbidden him to say anything, but he clearly made her uncomfortable. He’d had to share a small chamber with three of the men in Jon’s army. They were genial enough, and Pod was grateful to have a solid roof over his head, when many men slept in tents outside the castle walls, but one of the men snored so loud, he was like to rattle the stones in the walls. If Pod could manage to fall asleep before the other man did, he might sleep through some of the night. Unfortunately, the man had caught a chill that settled in his chest and nose that made him snore louder than usual. Pod hadn’t slept more than an hour or two the previous night. He considered taking his bedroll to the stables and sleeping in his horse’s box. He stumbled through the hall, dragging his feet, feeling as if he might fall asleep standing up if he didn’t keep moving. Pod grimaced, thinking of his upcoming sparring session with Brienne. As slow-witted as he was this morning, she was liable to knock him on his arse. Repeatedly. While Jaime offered criticism and traded barbed quips with Brienne. 

_ It’s going to be a very long morning_, he thought as he unthinkingly pushed open the door to Brienne’s chamber and walked into the room. He closed the door behind him, then turned. Pod froze, mouth falling open, staring dumbfounded at the expanse of Brienne’s bare skin on display.

He knew Brienne was a woman, but often didn’t think of her in that way, even though he called her “m’lady,” despite her protests. She almost always wore her armor, and when she wasn’t, her clothes were loose enough to conceal that she had a woman’s shape. She had never appeared less than fully clothed in front of him. 

But there she was, without a stitch on, as naked as her name day. Ser Brienne of Tarth was most definitely a woman.

Pod quickly averted his gaze, feeling a prickly heat creep from his chest to the back of his neck and over his face. He hoped he could manage to leave the room without them noticing. He whirled and blundered into the rack that held Jaime and Brienne’s swords. The rustling sounds from the bed ceased. ‘Podrick?’ Brienne’s voice was eerily calm. 

Pod slowly turned, gulping. Brienne pinned him with the sort of disapproving gaze he’d discovered only she could do. He stood rooted to the spot, face so hot, he fancied it could heat the room. ‘Yes, m’lady?’ he blurted automatically, fixing his gaze precisely on her left eyebrow.

‘Would you like to live long enough to see your next name day?’ she asked, in the tone of one inquiring after someone’s dinner preferences. He would get no help from Jaime. The bloody man’s face was buried in the crook of Brienne’s neck, shoulders shaking with muffled laughter.

‘Of course, m’lady… I mean, Ser.’

‘Then turn round. Open the door. Walk through it. Close it behind you. And never speak of this again.’

‘Yes, m’lady… Ser…. ’ Pod nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to leave. The door rattled on its hinges as he slammed it shut. 

‘You were supposed to bolt the door,’ Brienne said accusingly to Jaime. 

‘No, you were,’ Jaime shot back. ‘You lost. Two of three. Cloak covers stone.’ He grinned in triumph and lowered his head, mouth skimming down the column of her throat. ‘Where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's part of my HC that Jaime and Brienne play a version of Rock Paper Scissors to decide who has to get out of the nice, warm bed and do things like bank the fire or bolt the door. (Sadly, Rock Paper Scissors Lizard Spock wouldn't work here... Or maybe... Rock Paper Scissors Direwolf Night King?) 
> 
> Anyhoo... Versions of Rock Paper Scissors have been around since... the Han dynasty in China (206 BCE-220 CE). I tried to keep the options recognizable, so it's Stone Cloak Shears. Not very clever, but it does the job. ;)


	7. Old Woes New Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had someone said any words over Tommen’s body? Or had Cersei had him unceremoniously burned without a second thought? She never spoke about him. She spoke fondly of Joffery, and of Myrcella with a wistful air. But never Tommen. And Jaime had not had time to mourn him until now.
> 
> He rubbed his hand against the spreading ache in his chest. 
> 
> If only I’d been there, Jaime mused. He thought he might have been able to stop her from blowing up the Sept. Or prevent Tomment from killing himself. But he’d been sent away, to take control of Riverrun. Had Cersei contrived to find a reason for him to go, knowing he would have tried to prevent her from using wildfire?

The armies had departed Winterfell. The constant flurry of activity quieted to the low hum of the mundane tedium of daily life.

And for the first time in years, Jaime could breathe. 

The snow that shrouded the castle muffled sounds and softened the edges of the castle and trees. It made King’s Landing seem a far distant world. 

He eased the gate to the godswood open, and slipped inside. The world outside the gates of Winterfell melted away just a bit more. The godswood was almost eerily quiet. All the noise outside the gate ebbed and vanished as he approached the weirwood. Jaime tugged his glove off with his teeth and laid a curious hand on one of the low, swooping branches. It was warm to the touch, and Jaime could have sworn he felt the hint of a heartbeat. He slowly pulled his hand away and gave the tree a pensive stare before folding himself to the ground. Jaime propped his back against the trunk and pulled the edges of his cloak together. He stared at the dense fronds of cedar and hemlock, seeing the great pyres they’d build outside the walls instead. Faint echoes of Jon Snow’s words drifted on the wind that played with the ends of his hair. 

Had someone said any words over Tommen’s body? Or had Cersei had him unceremoniously burned without a second thought? She never spoke about him. She spoke fondly of Joffery, and of Myrcella with a wistful air. But never Tommen. And Jaime had not had time to mourn him until now.

He rubbed his hand against the spreading ache in his chest. 

_ If only I’d been there, _Jaime mused. He thought he might have been able to stop her from blowing up the Sept. Or prevent Tomment from killing himself. But he’d been sent away, to take control of Riverrun. Had Cersei contrived to find a reason for him to go, knowing he would have tried to prevent her from using wildfire?

There had been witnesses. They said Tommen had merely stepped into the window, then leaned forward until there was nothing between him and the hard cobblestones below but empty air. They’d commented, with a palpable sense of bemusement, that Tommen hadn’t cried out or indulged in histrionics. He only fell to his death, as silent as the wind. Jaime made a soft mewling sound in the back of his throat. He could only imagine the clawing sort of pain Tommen must have felt to know his wife had died in such a horrific manner. He wondered if Tommen had suspected that his own mother had engineered it. 

The carpet of fallen leaves and evergreen needles muffled Brienne’s footfalls. He didn’t look up as she draped a heavy cloak over his shoulders. The woollen folds still held the vestiges of the warmth of a fire. She must have warmed it before she came to find him. Brienne quietly sat on the ground next to him and covered his hand with hers. 

The grief welled up in his throat, nearly choking him, just as new and raw as it had been the day Cersei had informed him Tommen was dead. Jaime barely held back a strangled sob. Brienne shifted until she faced him, then slipped her arm around his waist, and drew him toward her, tucking his head against her shoulder. Jaime flung his right arm around her, clutching at her cloak with his hand. He wept unashamedly, dimly aware that she slowly rocked him, stroking his back. He grieved for Tommen and Myrcella, his tears full of bitter regret that he could not have been more to them than the distant Uncle Jaime. 

At length, Jaime lifted his head from Brienne’s shoulder. His cheeks were raw, and his eyes swollen. He wondered if she found his grief unmanly. But she only pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her doublet and dabbed at his face with the soft linen, still saying nothing. Brienne stood, pulling him to his feet. She guided him from the godswood to a door well away from the main entrance to the Winterfell hall. Jaime had no idea where they were. The bloody castle was still a maze to him, but she seemed to know which turns to take to find their chamber. She pushed him inside, and bolted the door behind them. 

Jaime stumbled to the fire, teeth chattering. _ But I’m not cold, _ he said to himself. He stood numbly while Brienne removed the gilded hand, then proceeded to strip off his clothes. She tucked him into the bed, then removed her own clothes, and slid in next to him. Brienne worked an arm under his neck, and fitted her body to his, knees behind his, her breasts pressed to his back. Her other arm draped over his waist, hand resting over his heart. Jaime huddled under the furs, tears still welling up and trickling from the corners of his eyes, while fine tremors ran through his body. ‘Tommen committed suicide,’ he murmured. ‘While I was at the Twins and Walder Frey called us both Kingslayers, like it was something to be proud of.’ He drew in a shuddering breath and turned to face Brienne. ‘Cersei used wildfire.’ His stomach roiled. The line between Brienne’s brows deepened. She, more than anyone else, understood how he would see that as a complete and utter betrayal. ‘I sacrificed my _ honor _ to save the bloody city. And she used wildfire to rid herself of people she perceived as her enemies. Just like Aerys.’ His face crumpled. ‘And my son died because of it,’ he said almost soundlessly. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the books, Jaime is really quite good at compartmentalization. In the show, you never see him mourn Tommen, not the way he does Myrcella, and I thought perhaps he wasn't allowed to, not even in private with Cersei, because she wouldn't allow it. So he's pushed it down, again and again, until he can no longer keep doing it.


	8. Two Sides of a Coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Does your father love you?’
> 
> It was a simple question, but a rather complicated answer. Brienne traced the lines of Jaime’s palm, the graceful arc of his fingers, the hard-earned calluses while she tried to give Jaime an adequate answer. ‘Yes,’ she said at length.

‘Does your father love you?’

It was a simple question, but a rather complicated answer. Brienne traced the lines of Jaime’s palm, the graceful arc of his fingers, the hard-earned calluses while she tried to give Jaime an adequate answer. ‘Yes,’ she said at length. She closed her eyes, and an image of Selwyn Tarth formed behind her eyelids. Taller than even the Hound, broad-shouldered, thick, wavy blonde hair so much like her own, the bushy beard, standing on the edge of a cliff above the Straits of Tarth, the wind blowing his cloak back from his shoulders. His gruff voice while instructing her how to properly hold a sword. His thick-fingered hand gripping her skinny shoulder during her brother’s vigil. His stout arms around both her and Galladon during their mother’s funeral. ‘I wasn’t…’ She shifted until she lay on her back, eyes fixed on the soot-stained beams overhead. ‘After my mother died, he…’ She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘It seemed as if he did not. That any love he had for Galladon and me died with her.’ She pressed the side of a finger under her nose, a muscle jumping in her jaw. Her vision slowly blurred as she stared beyond the ceiling, back in Evenfall’s hall, stiff and gawky, timidly taking the place of her brother on her father’s right side. ‘And then when Gal drowned, he seemed to want to keep everyone at arm’s length. Looking back on it, I can’t fault him for feeling so. He’d lost my younger sisters, my mother, my brother.’ 

‘He had you,’ Jaime told her, turning her face toward his. He touched his lips to the tip of her nose in a gentle kiss. 

‘Poor compensation. My father deserved a better heir than me. If he was left with only a daughter, it should have been one that would marry well and produce grandsons for my father. Or that’s what my septa would say.’ She inhaled, then exhaled slowly. ‘It was better after Robert Baratheon’s coronation. Maybe someone spoke to him. Perhaps the mistress that lived in the castle at the time.’ She rolled back to her side, facing Jaime, curled into a ball under the furs. ‘He wasn’t one for saying so, but when he told Septa Roelle to stop forcing me into dresses and let me wear trousers, it was an act of love. When he began to teach me to fight. When he gave me armor and a sword. Every day when he made it possible or gave me the means to be myself.’ Brienne swallowed past the lump in her throat. ‘I miss him terribly,’ she admitted, lacing her fingers through Jaime’s. 

‘My father only saw us as pieces in his game,’ Jaime began nearly soundlessly. ‘Things with which to make an alliance or strengthen his position. What he could gain through us. I think the only person he truly loved was my mother. He loved power. Prestige. Money.‘ Jaime’s shoulder hitched. ‘We were given the best money could buy. The finest clothes, the best horses. I received training with a master-at-arms second only to a Braavosi swordsman. We wanted for nothing, as far as material comforts went.’ He scooted a little closer to Brienne so his head rested next to hers on a pillow. ‘When I was a child, I would see other lords with their children and burn with envy because they obviously loved their children. Even as a man grown. When Robert came to Winterfell to ask Ned Stark to be his Hand, it was clear that Stark loved each of his children. Including his bastard.’ He shifted closer to Brienne a few inches. She was always so warm. ‘I was the youngest knight ever appointed to the Kingsguard. Not that I really wanted to be in it, but…’ He pressed his lips together into a tight line and shifted uneasily in the bed. He hated it when stray thoughts of Cesei intruded while he was in Brienne’s bed, in her arms. Nor did he particularly want to admit he’d been manipulated into joining the Kingsguard. ‘Never mind why I joined. It’s all in the past now.’ He slid a leg between Brienne’s. There was nothing seductive about it, only a wordless longing to be closer. ‘Nothing I ever did brought anything but irritated notice from my father. I was one of the best swordsman in the kingdom, but that was never good enough for Tywin. I was never what he wanted me to be. Cunning. Merciless. Clever. Ruthless. It must have been humiliating for him when Robb Stark not only tricked me, but captured me.’ He nuzzled the underside of Brienne’s jaw. ‘The one child that resembled him the most was the one he hated the most.’ 

Brienne felt a stab of sympathy for the child Jaime had been. She could picture him desperately vying for his father’s approval, his golden hair flopping into his green eyes, hellbent on becoming a better swordsman at ten than even the legendary Ser Arthur Dayne, only to be met with indifference and disapproval. She brushed his hair from his face. ‘You haven’t disappointed me in years,’ she informed him, with the barest hint of a smile curving over her mouth. 

‘I’ve done very little over the last four years to earn your regard to that degree.’ Jaime tucked himself against Brienne. ‘Nor do I deserve it.’ He tilted his head back to look into her eyes. His face tightened, regret rearranging its lines into a grimace. ‘One good deed doesn’t erase everything else I’ve done.’

Brienne kissed the tip of his nose, just as he had done hers. ‘No. It does not. But it’s a start.’


	9. Like Tomorrow Doesn't Exist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word would likely come soon from Jon Snow. By his calculations, the Northern army would be near King’s Landing. And Cersei would rather destroy the kingdom than give up her tenuous grip on what little power she had. The prospect of jumping into another sort of bear pit to save Brienne loomed in front of him. And he would do it if it meant Brienne would be safe.

Brienne bolted the door to the bath house and turned around. Jaime had already removed his cloak, boots, and socks, while looking longingly at the deep tub filled with steaming water. It had been a particularly trying day for him. He wouldn’t openly complain. He never did. Only the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed that he’d heard the whispers and felt the glowering scowls from the Northerners as he walked past them. Brienne had overheard Sansa patiently explain earlier that afternoon, yet again, that they would abide by guest right; they were  _ not _ the Freys. 

It had been the way in which he jabbed his spoon into his bowl of soup at dinner, shoulders hunched. The way he’d slouched in one of of the chair in front of the fire in their bedchamber, staring into the flames, while she added another few lines to the ongoing letter for her father. It was in the tilt of his head as he listened for the castle to settle into slumber before he pushed himself to his feet and fetched their cloaks and wordlessly opened the door. 

Jaime had stripped his shirt and trousers off before Brienne had even managed to remove her own cloak. He stepped into the tub with a beatific sigh, and then slid under the water. Brienne turned to the large hearth and stirred the coals. She added more wood to the fire and only then did she remove her clothing and join Jaime in the bath. His hand rose from the water and closed on the back of her neck, thumb digging into the knots that seemed to take up permanent residence there. Brienne moaned softly, going limp. Jaime ran his knuckles down either side of her spine, and she slumped against his chest. ‘Do you ever wish you could go back and do something different?’ she mused.

Jaime brushed his mouth over her shoulder. ‘Only in that moment between sleeping and waking. I sometimes wonder what might have happened if I had left Riverrun with you. Or if I had not gone to Dorne.’ He shrugged and reached for the sponge, holding it under his stump while he rubbed soap into it. ‘It’s all wishful thinking anyway.’ He ran the sponge across Brienne’s back. ‘You?’ 

Brienne looked down into the water at her reflection. The older she got, the more she resembled Galladon, she thought. ‘Do you remember me telling you about my brother?’

The sponge’s languid strokes over her back ceased. Jaime gazed at the back of her head, groping in the recesses of his memory. ‘Galladon?’ Brienne nodded once. ‘And he drowned, just before your eighth birthday.’

‘I wish I could have saved him,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t want to inherit. I never did.’ She moved her fingers through the water, distorting her reflection. ‘I’m not clever enough,’ she muttered. In a louder voice, she added, ‘History will not look kindly on me. I have no other siblings or distant relations. After my father, there’s only me. And I can’t… I won’t…’ She drew her knees into her chest. The idea of marrying someone else now, of doing the things she did with Jaime with anyone else made her ill. ‘The Tarths have governed the island for thousands of years. And the family will die with me.’

‘You don’t know that,’ Jaime told her. 

Brienne twisted around to face him. ‘We can talk about someday until we run out of breath and words. But someday is not even a promise.’

‘And you don’t want a promise yet.’ Jaime rubbed more soap into the sponge and scrubbed it down one of Brienne’s arms more forcefully than he intended. 

‘We discussed this. If your sister wins, there is no someday for us. And gods help us if...’ 

‘If…?’

Brienne shook her head. The possibility of a child was one she didn’t want to consider. One hand unconsciously pressed against her middle, just under her navel. Jaime’s breath caught in his throat. He knew well the taste of tansy and wormwood and pennyroyal, sweetened with honey and mint. He had yet to taste it in her mouth.  _ Gods help us if there is a child, _ he finished Brienne’s unspoken thought. He didn’t know exactly what Cersei had done with Ellaria Sand and her daughter Tyene, but he imagined it wasn’t pleasant. She would do the same, if not worse to Brienne. Especially if Brienne carried his child. He could all too easily imagine Cersei snatching the child from Brienne’s arms and casually throwing it from the Red Keep into Blackwater Bay, while that hulking guard of hers held Brienne in an iron grip and forced her to watch.

‘If Daenerys wins…? Would she spare you or follow through on her promise to avenge her father?’ Brienne’s voice was hollow and her shoulders hitched. ‘If Galldon had survived, none of this would matter.’ She rubbed a hand under her nose. ‘He would be safe in Evenfall with our father.’ Brienne took the sponge from Jaime. ‘And I wouldn’t matter,’ she muttered darkly. She turned her back to him. ‘All we have are stolen moments.’

  
Jaime couldn’t argue with that. He sat motionless while she ducked her head under the water and surfaced, sluicing the water from her hair with both hands. Word would likely come soon from Jon Snow. By his calculations, the Northern army would be near King’s Landing. And Cersei would rather destroy the kingdom than give up her tenuous grip on what little power she had. The prospect of jumping into another sort of bear pit to save Brienne loomed in front of him. And he would do it if it meant Brienne would be safe. He slid his arm around Brienne’s waist and pulled her back against him, burying his face in the crook of her neck.  _ I am hers… until the end of my days… I wish I had more with her. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooof. I should be wrapping this up in the next chapter or two. Yes, I will do Jaime leaving (keeping the speech from the show, with a clearer -- I hope -- intention). I'm hoping that it will come across that it wasn't a spur of the moment decision for him, that it had been swirling around his head since the beginning, and it wasn't meant to deliberately hurt Brienne. 
> 
> They protect each other. It's what they do.


	10. The Conscience of a Kingslayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime turned. Bran sat in his wheeled chair, framed by the gate into the godswood. ‘It will make no difference if you go.’ Jaime felt a shiver run down his spine. The boy stared at him, his face preternaturally calm and serene. ‘The city will fall, but you do not have to fall with it.’
> 
> Jaime gulped. ‘You can see the future?’
> 
> ‘I see the possibilities,’ Bran corrected. ‘But the only thing I know for certain is your presence in King’s Landing will not make a difference.’ Bran met Jaime’s eyes and and Jaime got the distinct impression Bran knew exactly what he was thinking. ‘Unless it’s only to salve your own conscience.’
> 
> Jaime’s lips pulled back in a parody of a smile. ‘Most people would say I don’t have one,’ he said in pathetic attempt to make a jest. Bran only gazed back at him.

Jaime wandered aimlessly through the castle grounds until he came to what the Winterfell inhabitants called the broken tower. The door hung ajar, just as it had back when Robert was alive and dragged them all North so he could demand Ned Stark return to King’s Landing with him to serve as Hand. He pushed the door open just wide enough to slip inside and slowly climbed the crumbling stairs to the top of the tower. 

There it was. The window that had framed a young Brandon Stark, who had inadvertently discovered his relationship with Cersei. ‘The things I do for love,’ he murmured, bracing his hand on the window frame, peering down into the yard, hearing the faint echoes of the howls of Bran’s young direwolf and the thud as Bran’s body landed on the ground. The things he did for love. Too many things to count. Murdering his cousin Alton, then the young Karstark boy. Olenna Tyrell. He hadn’t wanted to make her suffer in the manner Cersei had demanded. The old woman had suffered quite enough in his opinion. He had tried to convince himself that he didn’t have Olenna’s life on his conscience, that she had all but committed suicide by drinking the poisoned wine herself, but what choice did she have? A mercifully painless death or something far more agonizing at his sister’s hand?

A flash of blonde hair caught his eye in the dying light. Brienne strode across the yard, cloak billowing behind her, Podrick on her heels. He was sorely tempted to stay and wait out the rest of the war. To live his life with her and fade into quiet obscurity. But that would be dishonorable. It didn’t matter that his crimes and sins were the lesser ones. He’d been complicit in so many of her schemes. If Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen were going to hang Cersei, then he ought to hang beside her. He’d propped up her brutal regime, despite the internal nudging of his conscience. He had just as much blood on his hands as she did. 

She was a hateful woman. Myrcella and Tommen died because of her short-sighted actions fed by her thirst for power and vengeance. How much gold had she had to pay to bribe people to lie at Tyrion’s trial? How many people had died because Cersei unleashed the Faith Militant on King’s Landing? How many hundreds of innocent people — how many thousands — had died when she blew up the Great Sept? Jaime had no words to adequately describe the utter betrayal he’d felt, knowing that he’d ruined himself to prevent what she done with a complete lack of remorse. Would she use wildfire again? Would she destroy an entire city, the kingdom, just so Daenerys couldn’t have it?

Jaime could all too easily imagine her sitting on the Iron Throne, the Red Keep falling around her, proudly convinced her actions were the correct ones. 

Even if Cersei somehow managed to survive and defeat Daenerys, she couldn’t remain in power. Her reign would mean the end of the kingdom. ‘Queenslayer,’ he breathed. He’d done it once before to save the kingdom. He would do it again, regardless of the additional tarnish to his reputation. None of that mattered now. His fist clenched, and he remembered how it felt to plunge his sword into Aerys’ back.

_In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent._

It was fully dark before he emerged from the tower. The yard was quiet. _Everyone must be inside eating their suppers_, he thought.

‘Ser Jaime.’

Nearly everyone.

Jaime turned. Bran sat in his wheeled chair, framed by the gate into the godswood. ‘It will make no difference if you go.’ Jaime felt a shiver run down his spine. The boy stared at him, his face preternaturally calm and serene. ‘The city will fall, but you do not have to fall with it.’

Jaime gulped. ‘You can see the future?’

‘I see the possibilities,’ Bran corrected. ‘But the only thing I know for certain is your presence in King’s Landing will not make a difference.’ Bran met Jaime’s eyes and and Jaime got the distinct impression Bran knew exactly what he was thinking. ‘Unless it’s only to salve your own conscience.’

Jaime’s lips pulled back in a parody of a smile. ‘Most people would say I don’t have one,’ he said in pathetic attempt to make a jest. Bran only gazed back at him. Jaime nodded once toward Bran and trudged into the warm hall, brushing snowflakes from his hair and cloak. He wound his way through the tables to the one on the far side where Brienne sat with Podrick. They had saved him a seat. Podrick stood snagged an empty bowl and began to ladle stew into it, then set it at the empty seat across from Brienne.

He dipped his spoon into the bowl and stirred it, trying to identify the contents. Carrots and potatoes. Onions, Turnips. Parsnips. Barley. No meat, but who knew how long winter would last? They could always grow more vegetables in the glass houses. The few mouthfuls Jaime attempted to eat stuck in his throat. He shoved his bowl toward Podrick. ‘Want this?’ he asked. ‘I’m not very hungry.’

Brienne reached across the table and touched the back of his hand. The concern on her face was unmistakable. ‘Just tired,’ he told her. ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’ He grinned at her with a hint of his old roguish charm. ‘Care to join me?’ He must not have been completely successful in concealing his feelings. She looked at him with more than a little suspicion before rising. Brienne didn’t look at him and only took his hand as they left the hall and turned down the corridor to their bedchamber. 

* * *

Jaime fought sleep, even as it tugged at his limbs. It would be so easy to stay. To bury his nose into her hair and fall asleep, burrowed under the furs. To wake up next to her as he had done every morning for the past weeks. To dream of a life far removed from King’s Landing and war. To go with Brienne to her verdant island surrounded by deep blue water, and do nothing more than live their lives.

None of it would be possible if he stayed. His presence put Brienne’s life at risk, as well as every other person’s in Winterfell. 

Just one thing at a time, Jaime told himself. He managed to slide from the bed without jarring Brienne, gathered his scattered clothes, and put them on. First his smalls, then the trousers. Shirt. Woolen tunic. Leather surcoat. Socks, then finally his boots. 

Brienne sighed in her sleep and shifted. Jaime carefully pulled the furs over her, resisting the urge to press a kiss to her bare shoulder. He sat on the edge of the bed, and studied her face. He didn’t know how he was going to be able to tell her goodbye. He could wait for dawn. Explain everything. Explain his intentions. Tell her he didn’t regret a single moment with her. Argue that it had to be his hand, and his hand only, that took the life from Cersei. 

But knowing Brienne, she might try to talk him out of it. Or demand to accompany him. To fight by his side. He could hear her now. Face pushed pugnaciously into his own. _ I took a vow to protect the innocents, too._ But not this time. This was his fight, and his alone.

Jaime pushed himself to his feet and walked quietly to the fireplace, slumping into one of the chairs set in front of it. If he had time, he might be able to scrawl something down and leave it for Brienne to find when she awoke. He could rouse the maester. Dictate it. But the things that needed to be said were not meant to be shared with anyone else. She would be hurt and confused. And probably very angry. Just as well. That way she wouldn’t mourn him. Jaime looked over his shoulder at Brienne. She still slept soundly, so he carefully got to his feet and stuffed his scant belongings into his saddlebag. He could stop in the kitchens on the way to the stables and fill his bag with food. There were still stores of soldiers’ rations there. Hard biscuit with strips of dried beef wasn’t very appetizing, but it would do. He just needed to stay alive long enough to get into the Red Keep. 

Jaime set the saddlebag down long enough to pluck his cloak from a peg next to Brienne’s and slip it over his head. Widow’s Wail stood in the rack next to Oathkeeper. Jaime eased the sword from the rack, holding his breath. It miraculously did not rattle for once. He slid his gold hand through a strap on the saddlebag and tucked the sword under his arm. He painstakingly opened the door, inch by inch so the hinges didn’t rattle or squeal. Once he had slipped through the smallest opening possible, he just as deliberately closed the door.

* * *

‘She’s hateful. And so am I.’ Jaime winced inwardly at the harshness of his voice, but it was necessary. He needed her to stay in Winterfell. Far away from King’s Landing. He hoped he wouldn’t have to mortally wound her heart to make her stay. Her loyalties could no longer appear divided between himself and Sansa Stark, if she were to survive Daenerys Targaryen. He doubted he could even say the words. Even thinking them left a bitter taste in his mouth. He turned away from Brienne and mounted his horse, unable to block the sight of her face crumpling with grief. He’d only ever seen her openly weep once before, when Catelyn Stark was killed. 

This was worse.

Jaime nudged his horse forward and slowly rode through the gates of Winterfell. He stopped as the Kingsroad curved away from the castle and wheeled his horse around, body taut with the arrested impulse to gallop back into the yard, and tell her it was all a terrible mistake. 

He gazed at the round turrets of Winterfell, hoping against hope that one day, when the raw anguish had abated, she would understand he felt he had no other choice. 

Jaime released a breath with a shudder and turned resolutely south and rode away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There.
> 
> I hope I managed to give a little clarity toward Jaime's decision to leave Winterfell and fill in some of the gaps of their relationship that we never got to see.
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos and reviews. :)


End file.
